


Together

by Verbose (orphan_account)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Slash, Suicide Attempts, angst?.. maybe?.. idk man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Verbose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bulimia, self-harm, and newsboy slashyness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Race didn't know

**Author's Note:**

> The problems in this story are very personal to me, if you don't like it don't read it. Other than that I hope you enjoy! ♡  
>  *I do not own Newsies*

The moon's light cascaded over the dark city and shyly leaked through the windows of the Brooklyn lodging house. The room was filled with gentle light, cool air, and soft snores. Every bed occupied with a rightfully exhausted news boy... all except one. Brooklyn's leader once again had slipped away in the dead of night unnoticed, his thin body never even causing a creek of a floor board.

Spot Conlon sat on the edge of the docks in his thin pajamas, wrapped in his equally thin and scratchy blanket, shaking for more than just the cold coming off the ink tide. His stomach felt like it was shredding itself, but he sat silently, reflecting on the last few minutes.

* * *

He had snuck out again as per his usual routine. Feeling disgusting and fat despite how little he'd eaten. Only one thought was clear in his mind. _I have to do this, I have to._

He approached the edge of the dock; the cold wood injecting ice into the blood in his bare feet. The chilled breeze sneaking through his clothes and dragging his hair to the side with frigid fingers. He walked on and when he approached the edge he rested on his knees. He sighed and thought to himself: _Just one more time._ He looked around just to reassure himself of his solitude, and he took a breath. Then his fingers were down his throat.

He leaned over the edge and stared into the gentle flowing blackness; his left hand pressed against the freezing wood to steady himself. He continued to probe his throat with his right until he wretched. Everything he had allowed himself to swallow that day now belonged to the indigo sea. His eyes blurred with tears and he knew there was blood in it. He tried to calm himself and steady his fast and heavy breathing; he mentally repeated his mantra. _You have to do this, even if it hurts. You have to do this or you will be fat and weak and hate yourself forever. **Don't disappoint Brooklyn.**_

* * *

So now he sat on the edge of the dock, shaking and empty. Cold and alone. All except for the alabaster moon watching over him, shrouding his pale fragile body in the only light of the Brooklyn midnight. He had a fleeting thought of his boyfriend, Racetrack, interrupting the numb silence that had begun to envelope his mind. _I can't let him find out about this._ He absent mindedly wiped his mouth.

Spot coughed, the only other sound beside the tide gently pushing against the docks. It only made his stomach hurt more. His mouth felt raw; he could still taste stomach acid. He decided he should go in, not now, but soon. For now though, he was content sitting there, slowly tracing his ribs. He was happy he could feel them; happy he was empty. He only stopped for just a moment to rub his neck.

Spot's throat was sore again.


	2. What Spot didn't know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Real story starts after this! ♡

When the sky was finally graced with the moon's presence Race finally felt like he could breathe. The Manhattan lodging house was asleep, and he could finally drop that fake personality. That stupid fake smile too.

As usual he hated the day, almost as much as he hated himself. He was so tired of pretending. Race had spent forever convincing everyone that he was this perfect guy; funny, confident, straight... mentally stable... He couldn't wait to escape again.

The cool wooden floor groaned under his feet as he stepped out of bed, he winced at the sound and looked around; nobody seemed to have woken up. He breathed out a sigh of relief and knelt down, then he slid his hand along the side of his mattress, looking for the spot; then he felt it.

Race could barely see in the dark room, but he knew the image by heart. It was a circular flap he'd cut into the fabric with a knife and a smiley face he'd burnt in the center with his favorite cigar. He couldn't help grinning as he traced the sign, it was like the entry way to a utopia.

He took another look around to make sure everyone was still asleep, and then he reached in. Within a few seconds he found it: his best friend. The thin icy metal sent chills up his arm. He carefully put the razor in his pocket (in the back of his mind he remembered the day he stole it from a store and got away before anyone noticed). He walked as quietly across the room as he could, he'd memorized which boards were the loudest and avoided them reflexively. A few rows of bunks later he was at the window.

Slightly paranoid he glanced once more at the room behind him to make sure nobody was watching. Then in a practiced motion he lifted, crawled through, and shut the window without a sound.

On the fire escape Race exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding and took in the sights of the city around him. Everything was bathed in shades of blue and black. It seemed the only thing the white light of the moon could reach was Race, illuminating his olive skin and outlining the cloud of air as he sighed again; a cool breeze caressing him as it came by. His body shivered, but his mind welcomed the temperature. He'd always had a thing for the cold, the way it steadied his thoughts.

He leaned against the railing, resting his arms and facing the city, then he took out his razor. It only took a second for him to roll up his sleeve and hold the metal strip to his scarred wrist; he took a deep breath and quickly dragged it across.The sting was always the first thing he felt, then he watched the blood. It came up in pearls; a straight dotted line, then they joined together and began to drip the color of filthy roses.

He watched as the first few plummeted to the alley below and heard them smack the ground. Then he positioned the razor again and, like a paintbrush, swept three more crimson lines across his taut canvas. He marveled at the pain and pleasure, and smiled, almost lost in a mental euphoria.

Coming back down to earth Race almost laughed, he felt a giddiness, thinking of how moments like this gifted him unbridled freedom. The joy didn't last long though, glancing at his leaking flesh he had a fleeting thought: _I can't let Spot find out about this._ Race carefully placed the razor back into his pocket and stood there watching the last of the blood drip as the cuts were already clotting. Race thought about going back inside and quickly turned that idea down.

He'd sleep outside again tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 1 & 2 are basically prologues to the series btw. Ok I'm done lol.


End file.
